


A Force to be Reckoned With

by captnalbatr0ss



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:24:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7506388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captnalbatr0ss/pseuds/captnalbatr0ss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sam begins to come to terms with his feelings for Rafe, or at least can’t completely deny them anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Force to be Reckoned With

Sometimes Rafe cried in his sleep.

It hadn’t been something Sam had noticed right away. Before, Sam had briefly shared a prison cell with the billionaire, had slept in the same concrete box, and never heard Rafe cry in his sleep. Mumble, perhaps, toss and turn, yes. Back then, on rare occasion, Sam would wake up in the night to Rafe rustling around on the worn out mattress, his brow furrowed deeply, his lips moving quickly, uttering unintelligible things almost too softly to hear. 

But there had never been tears.

Since their botched escape, since Sam had been shot, since Rafe and Nathan had disappeared, something had changed. So many years, so much time passed that felt a mystery to Sam. He mused over the big changes—he’d learned that in the years since Rafe had left Panama, he’d taken over the family business, no doubt grown even more exorbitantly wealthy. Rafe never talked much about his ‘day job’, as he called it, but sometimes Sam wished he would. He was curious about it, and he had trouble imagining Rafe in that sort of role.

But the little changes intrigued him as well.

Things like Rafe’s eyes, they’d always been sort of tired. Heavy lidded. It was a feature that, only after fighting himself on it, and usually in the last drowsy thoughts before he fell asleep, Sam would admit he found striking. Attractive. 

More than once while he’d been in prison, he’d thought of those eyes—so capable of masking what Rafe was thinking, yet so expressive once you knew what to watch for. They were different now than they had been thirteen years ago. They were colder, harder. 

Rafe had always had a great poker face, maybe the best Sam had ever seen. He could shift to neutral in a heartbeat, not let on what he was thinking, not until he was ready, and in the meantime his face would give away nothing. 

But now when Rafe stripped away all the emotion from his features, it didn’t just leave a blank slate. It exposed the truth that Rafe oftentimes hid beneath his charming, lazy smile. It revealed weariness, an almost hopeless determination; he would not let go of Avery’s treasure. And now, more than ever, the intensity of his resolve bordered on reckless.

The years had taken their toll. 

Rafe had told Sam everything, all he’d done in attempt after vain attempt to locate Avery’s treasure, both with Nate and without him. Sam could only imagine what that had been like. He’d watched Rafe, worked with him long enough to know his focus was intense, draining. Rafe could channel all his energies and efforts into a thing, with admirable ferocity. He was capable of accomplishing a lot in a fraction of the time it would take less driven men. But it had a price; it was exhausting. Always tiring. And Sam could tell that much hadn’t changed.

But the crying. This was new.

The first time Sam noticed it was a few weeks after Rafe had come for him, arranged his release from prison. They had checked into a hotel. It was late already, and they were both tired. Money being no object, Rafe had secured two rooms for them. But between a mix-up with reservations and an unexpected water leak that had already displaced or rearranged nearly a fourth of the guests, they had ended up sharing a suite.

Rafe had been furious. Sam had watched while Rafe tore into the poor woman working the front desk. He looked on silently, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the wall on the other side of the room, fingers itching for a cigarette. 

Rafe was a force to be reckoned with when provoked. And as far as Rafe was concerned, he had been sufficiently provoked. 

But for all the energy, all the effort, it was simply out of his control; another thing Rafe couldn’t abide. He had threatened to find another hotel all together, but that’s when Sam spoke up.

“Hey.” He’d stepped between Rafe and the concierge, purposefully using his body as a barrier. He reached out, placing a hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “Can we not? I’m beat. Hell, I could sleep in the lobby, as tired as I am. Let’s just take it, a’right? You can have the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch. Or the floor. Or the balcony. I’ll sleep anywhere.” He offered a light hearted grin, trying to defuse the situation a bit.

Rafe’s eyes narrowed.

Sam kept his hand on Rafe’s shoulder. Rafe’s muscles were tense, taught.  _God,_ Sam thought, _I don’t think a man could be wound any tighter, not and survive._

“Seriously,” Sam insisted, relieved to feel Rafe relax slightly. “It’s no big thing.”

Rafe had begrudgingly relented, lips pressed tightly together, eyes as hot as his temper. 

He stood close to the counter, his position, his posture intended to be overbearing. Sam had watched him do it before. 

What Rafe lacked in height he made up for in ferocity.

The woman elected to keep her eyes downcast as she worked, fingers typing quickly. Sam could tell she was more than ready for this interaction to end.

She opened her mouth to speak, still refusing to meet Rafe’s eye. 

“One or two ke—”

“Two.” Rafe’s tone was short, sharp. Intended to cut.

It did.

Sam frowned as the woman shrank back instinctively. 

She activated two keycards, tucking them both into a small envelope. She started to say something again, likely the usual spiel about the cards, but stopped short. Sam couldn’t blame her for it.

Rafe snatched the envelope off the counter and all but stomped away towards the elevator, refusing to even acknowledge the bellhop as he slung his duffel bag over his shoulder. Sam followed close behind.

They hadn’t spoken much once they reached their room. Sam knew when to let Rafe stew, when to give him space.

While Rafe unpacked a few things, quickly littering the desk with his laptop, his files, Sam slipped out onto the balcony and lit up. He could hear Rafe behind him, the creak of the chair as Rafe sat, the sound of Rafe’s fingers drumming impatiently against the wood as he booted up his laptop. Sam closed his eyes and could almost see Rafe’s face; his lips would be pursed, his eyes narrowed and intent on the screen. Rafe’s hair wouldn’t be perfect anymore. At least a few strands would have fallen into his face by now, and Sam imagined Rafe pushing them back, running his hands through his hair in an attempt to get it out of his way.

Sam shook the thought from his head, took another long drag of his cigarette, blew the smoke out slowly. He thought about asking if Rafe needed anything. He knew that Rafe would be working. He was never not working. But he also knew that Rafe wouldn’t hesitate to demand his assistance if he did need something, so Sam lingered on the balcony longer. 

The night breeze felt good against his skin. And the view was undeniably gorgeous, the sky was nothing but stars. Cloudless. Mesmerizing.

Once he had finished his cigarette, he stepped back inside, sliding the door shut behind him.

Rafe was still at the desk, but Sam could tell from his posture that he wouldn’t be there much longer. 

Sam sidestepped into the bathroom to splash water on his face. He rooted around in the closet until he found an extra blanket, then he retired to the couch, listening as Rafe closed his laptop abruptly and pushed back from the desk, crossed the room, and disappeared from Sam’s view. 

After a moment, Sam heard the shower kick on. 

Sam switched off the lamp in his portion of the hotel room, throwing one arm across his eyes as he laid on his back. It wasn’t long before the sound of running water subsided, then came the soft creak of hinges as Rafe emerged again. Sam lifted his arm slightly, just enough to peer under it. 

Rafe had his back to him. He had changed into a pair of black pajamas. They fit loose on his lean frame, rode low on his hips. His hair was still wet, disheveled. Very unlike how Rafe normally styled it. A few rogue drops of water slipped from his hair, ran down his back. Rafe reached a hand back to rub at the nape of his neck, apparently it was stiff. Probably from sitting at the desk, and probably thanks to Rafe’s constant tension.

Sam’s fingers twitched against his belly, the arm across his eyes shifted up so he could see better. He pictured himself getting up, closing the distance between them. He imagined his hands on Rafe’s neck, his shoulders, fingertips digging in to sore muscles. 

He wondered what Rafe would do; thought it very likely that he’d spin around and throw a punch—he’d never been one to respond passively to unexpected or uninvited contact. But Sam would be expecting that, and it would be easy enough to dodge. 

Sam imagined using his height to his advantage, backing Rafe up until his knees hit the mattress, and then it would be easy to lay him down, roll him over, and spend however long it took to work the knots out of his muscles. 

Sam wondered what it would be like to see Rafe relaxed, wondered if that was even something Rafe was capable of doing anymore.

He could imagine, vividly, the sounds Rafe would make as Sam’s hands worked their magic. He believed they would start softly, he knew Rafe would fight it. 

 _It would start off like a growl,_  Sam thought; low and heady, rising up from deep in Rafe’s chest.  _But I bet I could make him purr._

Sam almost groaned, closed his eyes, managed to stifle it. He pressed his fingers tight against his stomach to still them, and he forced his mind to clear. He couldn’t afford to spiral down that particular rabbit hole, not when the two of them were in such close proximity.

Once his mind was quieted again, he risked another glance at his counterpart.

As Rafe made his way around the bed, Sam’s eyes followed him. He was more toned, more cut than he had been last Sam had seen him. His mannerisms were much the same, almost to the letter, but he carried himself differently. Almost imperceptibly so, but Sam saw it. Something in his step, not quite a swagger, nothing that obvious. Power, maybe. Not that Rafe had ever lacked that, not really. But Sam could tell that he was stronger than before, physically. 

And, somehow, even more sharp. Hard.

He carried himself like a man who had something to prove.

Rafe slid into bed, turned off the lamp nearest him, and the whole room fell into darkness. 

Sam sighed, closed his eyes again.

He laid awake for some time still. He listened as Rafe’s breathing slowed, as his movements stilled.

His years in prison had greatly affected how he slept. Prison was loud, even at night. After he’d healed up from his wounds, he’d had trouble sleeping. Back in his cell, the noise was constant, relentless. Finally, he learned to sleep through it, subconsciously coasting in and out of the bullshit. He remained keenly aware of his surroundings, he wasn’t hard to wake up exactly, but he was able to sleep through almost anything if nothing in his subconscious triggered him to wake up. 

In contrast, the silence in the hotel room was deafening. It felt to Sam like his mind was restless because there was no noise to filter through. It went against everything Sam was accustomed to. He found it disconcerting. And as such, he found that despite his efforts to turn his mind off, he couldn’t keep himself from straining to hear a sound. Any sound.

The sound he got was not one he expected. In fact, at first he thought he had imagined it. But then it had come again.

A very soft, very low sort of whimper.

Sam squinted in the dark, carefully shifting on the sofa. The arm across his eyes had become heavy, had fallen asleep. It tingled when he moved it, and he frowned at the sensation. He twisted his body slightly, propping himself up on his other elbow.

He heard it again, but more of a groan this time. Sam would have bet money against it being Rafe, except who else could it be?

Sam very actively ignored the similarities to the sound he’d heard and the one he’d imagined Rafe making with Sam’s hands on him.

_Not a good time._

Sam swung his legs out, planting bare feet on the floor. He straightened, stretching his back, and stood.

The light that filtered in through the blinds was faint, soft. The moon wasn’t quite full, but it fell at an angle across the bed, and it was enough to illuminate Rafe’s sleeping form.

Sam tiptoed towards the bed, freezing each time Rafe moved. 

First an arm, Sam could see it from under the thin top sheet. It went from resting on Rafe’s stomach to sliding up and under his pillow. Rafe’s head tipped slightly, angled away from Sam. Sam began to move forward again.

Then it was a leg, crooked at the knee. Rafe tensed as another low moan escaped him. His leg extended, then he rolled onto his side.

A few more steps and Sam stood at the edge of the bed, staring at Rafe’s back, watching his chest rise and fall in a strange sort of rhythm. Steady, steady, steady, and then his breath would hitch, stutter, another whimper would follow, and repeat.

Sam was perplexed. He wanted to reach out, to wake Rafe up, but he hesitated. It seemed an intrusion. 

_I should leave well enough alone._

He hadn’t realized he’d leaned in closer until Rafe moved again—suddenly instead of facing away from Sam, he was turned toward him. If he’d opened his eyes just then, he would’ve seen an anxious Sam, looking as if he were about to be caught in the act, some act, perhaps the act of breaking into Rafe’s personal space.

But Rafe’s eyes didn’t open. Instead they seemed to shut tighter, and before Sam leaned away again, the moonlight revealed a silvery reflection on Rafe’s cheek.

     Tears.

_Tears?_

Sam froze in place again, truly surprised. As Rafe’s brow furrowed again, fresh tears came, and so did the hitch in his breath.

Sam backpedalled carefully, retreating to his spot on the couch. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, he didn’t have a place in his Rafe box for what he’d seen. There were a lot of things in his Rafe box; the intensity, the drive, the fortune, the temper. But vulnerability? If that’s what this was, Sam didn’t know how to fit it in. It didn’t mesh with the rest. It wasn’t a layer he’d anticipated.

He remained fixated on it as he laid back down, finally surrendered to sleep.

* * *

It was several weeks before it happened again, and long enough that Sam had begun to think he’d imagined the whole thing. They were in another hotel, and Sam had convinced Rafe that one suite would be just fine again, admitting that he still preferred a couch to a bed.

The truth of it was a serious internal conflict for Sam—in prison, he’d never had a moment to himself, not really. He thought, once out, he’d enjoy the privacy. And yet, he’d grown so accustomed to not having it, that now he found complete solitude a bit uncomfortable. He liked sharing a room with Rafe. He liked knowing he wasn’t totally alone.

This time Sam had been the first to fall asleep. But when the younger man began to stir in his bed, began to gasp and whimper, Sam woke immediately.

_It’s happening again._

He stood quickly and padded silently across the floor to the bed, afraid that if he didn’t act fast the moment would pass, and more than anything Sam wanted to reaffirm to himself that he hadn’t imagined it before. 

The room was darker this time, but the longer he let his eyes adjust, the more he could discern.

Rafe’s chest rose and fell rapidly—the quick, shallow breathing of distress. His head tossed from side to side, his hair fell haphazardly across and around his face, darkening his features more.

Sam’s fingers itched, but not for a cigarette this time. It was all he could do to keep from reaching out, brushing that unruly hair back from Rafe’s eyes, erasing Rafe’s tears with the pad of his thumb.

Sam’s muscles tensed, hands clenched into fists as he fought the urge, trying to ignore the intoxicating stirring he felt in the pit of his stomach as his eyes zeroed in on Rafe’s lips, slightly parted, just barely opening and closing with each weak whimper.

He stood there longer than he should have, longer than was wise, and by the time he finally turned away, he was aching. 

He slunk to the bathroom in defeat, closing the door carefully, leaning against it as his hand slipped down the front of his boxers. His breath caught in his throat. Tears of his own formed as he clenched his jaw, fingers wrapping around himself, thick and hard, pulsing with want. 

It had been long, so agonizingly long since he’d known the touch of another, felt the weight of a body in his arms. But he imagined it now. His heart hammered in his chest as his hand pumped, grip tightened. His head was swimming, spinning, too much on his mind. 

_Rafe._

Rafe’s eyes, that intoxicating duet of blue and brown. His lips, the hard lines of his body that somehow also seemed so delicate, so fragile. As if the man who strutted around in daylight, barking orders, making demands, as if he disappeared sometimes, some dark and dead nights, replaced by this imposter. This broken man.

What else could it be? The two were so different, the cold and the vulnerable, the guarded and unguarded. 

 _It had to be a break,_ Sam thought,  _a crack. A fracture. But what?_

Sam gritted his teeth, stifled a whimper of his own. His hand was a blur, tugging and tightening, squeezing and pumping. A few more strokes and he came, choking back a throaty grunt. He staggered forward, nearly doubling over, surprised by the intensity of his orgasm. His hand was sticky, his boxers hot. He took a shaky breath and groped in the dark for a towel, shedding his boxers and wiping himself down as best he could manage. He frowned as he did the same to his boxers, hoping it wouldn’t be too noticeable in the morning, not willing to risk the noise he knew he’d make digging in his things for a clean pair.

He slowly opened the bathroom door, squinting at Rafe’s silhouette in the dark, reassuring himself that Rafe was still asleep before returning to the sofa, laying down with his back to the room, pulling a blanket up around him. He felt a kind of satisfaction that had eluded him for a long time. None of the times he’d jerked off in prison had been that intense. 

His mind felt cloudy, foggy, in the best possible way. And yet the hunger in his belly was far from gone. Sam still felt it as he drifted into sleep, and as he dreamed, he imagined Rafe above him, straddling him, his small frame rising and falling, rising and falling, his head tipping back, his mouth open and his eyes closed. Sam could practically feel his hands on Rafe’s hips, his thighs, absorbing the heat from the younger man’s body as Rafe rode him.

The next morning, Sam struggled to put the night’s events out of his mind all together, only really succeeded in shifting them to the back burner.

It ate at him. Rafe acted no different, continued to demonstrate unparalleled dedication to their renewed efforts to narrow down their lead on another Saint Dismas cross. 

Everything seemed normal, but Sam still wondered. All thanks to those few late-night moments, when Rafe slept and Sam could not.


End file.
